Quietus
by evilmanray
Summary: AU. The Nonary Game - nine people have nine hours to escape using nine numbered doors. Freedom lies behind door number nine, for those who manage to reach it. Ensemble.


**Title**: Quietus

**Summary**: AU. The Nonary Game-nine people have nine hours to escape using nine numbered doors. Freedom lies behind door number nine, for those who manage to reach it. Ensemble.

**Pairing(s)**: Slight America/Japan.

**Warning(s)**: Character death, gory details, drug references, violence.

**A/N**: uh this was written like a year ago for the APH kinkmeme and it will be continued eventually if I ever remember what was supposed to happen other than a bit of America/Japan (I think?)

please point out any typos

this is based off of the game '999: Nine Hours, Nine Persons, Nine Doors' so if you haven't played it, you might not understand everything right away, but I honestly don't think knowledge of the game is necessary to read this

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Alfred awoke with a start.

There was a loud sound that made him jump up out of his somewhat peaceful slumber. He groaned as his head snapped up to look around, only to hit something cool and metal. A ceiling? Was he really so high up? Alfred couldn't be sure. His vision was blurring so badly he couldn't make out any distinct shapes, and when he glanced downwards, it was even hard to tell what color his own shoes were. The more he groped around for at least something to possibly tell him where he was or what was going on, the more frustrated he became. There seemed to be absolutely nothing there, except himself, of course. Noticeably infuriated, and with good reason, Alfred finally flung his right arm outwards, away from his body, hoping to grab onto something.

He realized it maybe wasn't a good idea when the only thing he found was air, and then felt himself sliding off whatever he had been lying on.

There was a good one or two seconds before he heard a resounding smack, and then another full minute to register that what made the noise was his body slamming against the floor after falling from such a height. That annoying, creaking noise that simply would _not_ go away was probably his bones shattering into a million pieces. There was no other explanation.

It hurt. Every part of him ached.

Alfred could barely move to stand up. It took sheer willpower to even lift his arms to put his hands on the ground and push himself upwards. His eyesight was still as horrible as it had been before he fell, but as he stared and squinted trying to clear up his surroundings, he noticed something was missing.

_Glasses_.

His hands instantly went for his pockets. It was so quiet he could hear himself exhale in relief when his fingers touched glass. Pulling them out of his pocket and putting them on, Alfred suddenly understood where a part of the noise from when he tumbled over came from, if his broken glasses were anything to go by. Luckily, only the left lens seemed beyond help. The right still allowed him to see with clarity, to some extent.

The first thing he noticed were the bunk beds to his right and left, consisting of three bunks each. Considering his massive headache, Alfred concluded he must have rolled off of the topmost bunk. He reached up and touched his forehead.

The pain made him hiss so much that he almost reminded himself of a snake. The gigantic bump on his forehead was positively _throbbing_, almost in time with the harsh thumping of his heart.

Alfred didn't know what was going on. No matter how long he seemed to glare at the beds, they didn't give him any answers as to exactly where he was or how he got there. He couldn't remember a single thing.

Irked beyond belief, Alfred kicked the bottom bunk of the bed closest to him. It did nothing except make him realize he must have twisted his foot badly. A simple kick to an object normally did not cause that much pain. Throwing his hands up in the air, Alfred turned.

He took such a sharp intake of breath that he swayed so hard it caused him to fall over onto his backside. His teeth rattled with the impact.

In front of his eyes was a large door. A way out! Alfred would have have been excited, had it not been for the large number 5 painted on it in red.

A five, dripping in red paint… almost like blood…

Alfred slowly lifted one of his hands.

Blood covered his palm and fingers. There was a large gash in a straight line with some sort of crusty substance nearby. It almost seemed to be growing toward the laceration. After noticing it, the blood's metallic smell accosted Alfred's nose.

He felt his stomach lurch.

Bloody handprints were everywhere. He looked around the room, and was a tad satisfied to realize that all of it came from just his hand, seeing as they were only covering places where he had touched after falling. He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes at the floor. He must have scratched his hand on the rusty nail jutting up from it, taking the pools of red around it into consideration.

He peered at his hand, turning it over and over. The blood had stopped gushing from it, thankfully, and the smell was no longer as nauseating as it had been. He wondered how long he'd been sitting on the ground worrying over his rather destroyed hand, if the smell of blood wasn't bothering him anymore.

No.

What bothered him was the bulky _thing_ on his wrist. It hadn't caught his attention until that moment. It wasn't a watch, although it appeared like one. It could have been one if it showed the time. But, rather than the time, on the digital display was a red number.

5.

His eyes moved to the door. Another 5.

"Oh, God…" Alfred breathed. It was pointless to say anything, but it made him feel better. It made him feel less alone.

Alfred had seen those freaky movies before.

He knew how this was going to go.

Any moment now, a murderer in a white hockey mask was going to walk in, and Alfred would be his fifth victim. Or first, if the murderer was going by fives.

The murderer hadn't come in yet. There was a door that murderer could obviously use to get _in_, but it was also a door Alfred could use to get _out_. Standing up, Alfred wiped his hands on his jeans and, ignoring the disturbing red smear his left palm made, he approached the door cautiously.

Alfred jiggled the doorknob. It wouldn't budge. He pulled it as hard as he could, and it still wouldn't move. Alfred considered himself to be pretty strong—he had won the Physical Fitness award every year he was in grade school and every year he was in high school, and all the guys at the college gym were impressed that he could practically bench press a Jeep—but even if he used all the force he could muster, the doorknob still didn't do anything.

He saw a device near the door. Alfred moved towards it, instinctively. It looked like… a card reader?

It was the spitting image of a card reader that were normally at hotels, not wherever the hell he was, but it had a lever on its side, one that belonged on slot machines. Alfred tried pulling the lever. It moved, but nothing happened. The door didn't open. Alfred even reached into his pocket, found his wallet, and slid his credit card before tugging on the lever, but the door was still locked.

Finally, Alfred just hauled the lever down with every single bit of his strength that he had left.

The lever snapped off in his hands.

"Fuck," was the only thing he could think of to say.

How was he supposed to get out _now_?

The entire thing was ridiculous. Alfred tried pinching himself to see if this was a dream, because he could think of no logical reason as to why he was standing in some sort of asylum room with a bleeding hand, a locked door, and a device to unlock it that he just broke.

He didn't wake up.

The only thing that happened was some sort of loud explosion. It sounded like glass splintering to the point that it shattered completely. Then came the telltale rushing of water.

Alfred didn't want to look behind him, but curiosity eventually won over and he took a peek over his shoulder.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

A window in the corner that he had somehow missed was ruined, and the water that must have been behind it was pouring into the room at a ludicrously rapid pace. Alfred panicked and tried to find something to stop the water with, but the beds were bare. No sheets, no duvets, and the pillows were basically nothing more than two pieces of cardboard stapled together with a couple of feathers in between. The mattress was a layer of foam, possibly even half a layer. Or a third.

"I'm screwed," Alfred groaned. He pretended his brother Matt was listening even though his brother wasn't there, but Matt was invisible in the first place so it didn't matter. It was the principle of the thing.

Alfred wouldn't call himself the sharpest crayon in the box, and most likely never would, but he knew he needed to get out—and fast. If there was a card reader, then there might be a card hidden in the room. Alfred spotted the briefcase on the bed he hadn't seen before, and figured the card was in there.

Tossing the broken lever behind him and not caring where it landed, Alfred picked up the briefcase and inspected it, attempting to pay no attention to how painfully his hand was pulsating. There was a lock, this one shaped for a key, not a card. Alfred tried searching his pockets for house key to see if that would work, but whoever stuck him in this room apparently stole his key, too.

Great.

And they had left his wallet, for some reason.

Next to the lock, there was a dial with four different numbers to be flipped through. It was like a lock Alfred would put on a school locker. No amount of fiddling with the numbers did anything, either.

"Fuck this," Alfred declared—to Mattie, yes, to Mattie, not to himself because that would be insane—and tossed the briefcase back on the bed.

There were so many places to begin looking for a key to that thing, not to mention the code that would give him the numbers to unlock it.

Alfred decided that was too much work and took the briefcase in his hands again. If he could just pry the case open, it would solve everything. Alfred dug his nails under the lid and lifted, trying to use every ounce of power he possessed. Alfred disregarded the fact that he had irritated the wound on his hand and made it bleed even more. He just continued to pull apart the case.

There was a crack, and then the briefcase snapped open. Alfred was instantly appreciative of those Physical Fitness awards as he threw the opened case on the bed and dug through it.

There was a notebook, and that was about it.

Awesome.

With the way Alfred's head was killing him, there was no way he would be able to read words and understand them, but if the notebook was the one thing in there, it was worth reading. Alfred flipped it open and scanned the pages for anything interesting.

The first thing he read were the words 'digital root.' Just thinking of what that was used up too much of his brain. Still, despite how math-y it sounded, it was important, and Alfred continued on.

'A digital root is an answer to a problem in which all the numbers must be added together, and if a two digit number results, then the two digits must be added to one another. Do this until a single digit is reached. The single digit is the digital root of the numbers with which you started.'

No matter how many times Alfred read it over, it didn't make any sense. Digital roots didn't exist. He'd never heard about them in any math class he'd ever taken, barring the tiny detail that he slept through math class. There wasn't even a digital root function on his calculator.

Alfred turned the page. At least there was an example provided.

'Such as: 6 + 7 + 8 = 21. 2 + 1 = 3. The digital root of 6, 7, and 8 is 3.'

It made more sense than it did beforehand, but it still didn't exist. This type of thing couldn't be an iactual/i mathematical problem. Alfred shook the notebook, hoping to find something else that would be of use, since the 'digital root' thing wasn't being helpful at the moment. Three cards fell out of the notebook onto the bed and Alfred grabbed them. They were blue, each with a number on them. There was a 6, a 7, and an 8.

Meaning their digital root was 3.

It was still stupid.

Alfred kept shaking the book, thinking that maybe 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 would fall out, but they never did. And Alfred would need the 5 card to get out, since he guessed that the digital root of 5 was… well, 5.

Well, 6 and 8 made a digital root of 5, so Alfred kept them and stuck the 7 in his pocket before going over towards the door. Sliding these cards would probably unlock the door, it didn't take a genius to figure that out. First, he slid the 6 card in the card reader, and then the 8. An asterisk appeared on the little screen with each card he slid in the reader. After the second asterisk showed up, Alfred pulled whatever was left of the lever.

There was a beep. It didn't sound good, but Alfred grabbed the door handle and pulled, anyway. Nothing happened. Alfred tried pushing, but it ended with the same result.

"Shit." Alfred's fist slammed against the door. "I need the 5 card."

It must have been in another briefcase. Alfred went to search the room again and noticed a little cabinet thing, although instead of having doors, it was covered with a curtain. He trudged over to it, the growing level of water impeding his movements.

The water was to his knee.

He needed to find that 5 card.

Alfred pulled back the curtain. Thankfully, the other briefcase was resting on a shelf. This one took an even greater amount of force to snap open, but just like the one found on the bed, it broke, and inside were three key cards, only these happened to be red and they were 1, 2, and 3.

There was no 5.

"Damn it."

There had to be some purple cards somewhere, but it didn't seem likely. There weren't any places left to hide briefcases. Just to be sure, Alfred quickly checked under the pillows, but all he found was a piece of paper with some shapes on it, which would do no good.

Whatever. There water was rising too swiftly to look for a 5 card, so some combination of 1, 2, 3, 6, 7, and 8 had to produce a digital root of 5, or else this entire thing would be pointless. Alfred went back to the card reader and began to slide cards and pull the lever haphazardly, although the reader would only allow a combination of three cards at a time. Finally, he pulled the lever, and a different beep than all the others sounded.

Alfred grabbed the door's handle, turned it, and pushed.

It was unlocked! All due to his genius.

The water rushed out of the room faster than Alfred did, and it swept him along for the ride. He was losing his balance. A large wave crashed into the back of his knees, making him land face first in the current of water, unable to get up. The water slammed him into the door opposite the one he had just come out of, his shoulder agonizingly knocking against the metal doorknob. Even if he had just rammed right into it, Alfred reached up and grabbed the handle before the currents could sweep him away again. His hands were slipping. Water was going into the once again bleeding cut on his palm. Crimson drops of water covered the doorknob, slicking it, and the water around him was steadily turning a sickening red color. He was going lightheaded.

Alfred considered himself sufficiently scared. Not that he would tell anyone that. If there was the creepy music instead of the sound of his ragged breathing, it could have been the perfect scene out of a bad horror movie.

Alfred didn't understand why this was happening to such a pure, innocent, sweet man like him. Whoever got their sick kicks out of locking random people behind fucking _numbered doors_ was crazy, but if he had to be killed by somebody, Alfred was glad it was a psychopath he didn't know rather than that one Cuban guy who threatened to strangle him on a daily basis. And, really, this was a _way_ to go. Matt would probably laugh at the impossibility of it all before realizing it had to be true and then cry like a girl, because Alfred F. Jones did not go down without a fight.

Right. Where was all his resolve going? Alfred didn't want to know the answer. How could he let himself just die like _this_? Granted, it'd be a great story to tell in his next life or something, but he couldn't give up. Heroes did not give up. It would be in the rulebook, if one existed.

Alfred gripped the doorknob as tightly as he could and hauled himself up until his feet were firmly planted on the floor. He didn't let go of the handle until he felt he was standing steadier than before, but fat luck of good that did, because as soon as he released his hold on the knob, the water rocked against his body with such an impact that he went stumbling forward again. Alfred hurriedly went to lean against the wall and moved along it, so as not to be pushed over all the way again. It was more the water moving him than it was his own effort to move, but that didn't matter. He could see a staircase at the end of the hallway.

It was like a light at the end of a tunnel. Alfred went towards it—though it wasn't as if he had a choice. As Alfred went up the steps, the water followed him. He kept his hands on the railing so as not to fall over and slam his head into the staircase.

Alfred came to a door at the top of the staircase. The water seemed to have tapered off a bit by the end, but it was gradually rising. It wasn't as though Alfred even cared about the water anymore, since he was soaked to the bone. The one thing on his mind at the moment was the door in front of him.

He needed to leave this hallway, that much was obvious. But what if a guy with an axe was waiting for him outside of it?

Alfred decided that being chopped into little pieces by an axe was better than drowning. The door nearly came off its hinges when Alfred manhandled it open in his haste to get out.

He stopped running as soon as he saw what had lain behind the door.

"What…" Alfred whispered. "What the hell…"

It was easy to understand Alfred's confusion. It wasn't everyday that he saw such a sight as this. There was a decorated tile floor stretching out before him, with equally embellished staircases rising up. It looked almost like a hall in a castle, but if he was in a castle, then the water wouldn't make sense. Alfred tried to think of other places he'd see something like this, but he came up with nothing. Not once in his life had he seen such an elaborate design, not even in those stupid art history classes he'd been forced to take. Maybe if he'd paid attention to the teacher, he would be able to pinpoint from what period the designs were.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring, open-mouthed when he heard splashing.

Splashing?

Alfred turned.

Being the idiot that he was, he'd forgotten to close the door after exiting, and he saw a gigantic wave heading directly for him. Before he could even process it, Alfred dashed up the polished stairs, desperately wishing not to slip on his soggy shoes and smash his chin into a step.

There were so many stairs. It must have taken minutes to run up them. Either that, or Alfred was walking.

He was probably walking.

There were golden plates on the wall. He'd seen one saying 'C Deck' as he ran upstairs, while the one at the top read 'B Deck.' What they meant, Alfred didn't stop to ponder about, because as soon as he reached the top step he heard footsteps. Not from behind him, but down the new set of stairs in front of him, coming _towards him_.

He couldn't turn around and go back to the 'C Deck', or whatever that was. It was submerged. He'd have to face his murderer head on. He couldn't back down. He was Alfred F. Jones, for God's sake.

Alfred went to the bottom of the adjacent stairs to meet his killer with confidence.

What he wasn't expecting was a group of four people to show up, and then another group, only this time with three. _Seven_ people? No fair. He surmised he could beat up two, possibly three people, in his condition, but _seven_? Shit.

But, the seven others didn't seem to be after Alfred. It was evident they were equally as puzzled as he was, in light of their stone cold silence and surprised faces. It was as if they had banked on seeing another person just as much as Alfred had, meaning not at all. Every single one of them blatantly gawked at Alfred, without any semblance of shame.

"Enough standing around!" a man with blonde hair and the most hilarious eyebrows Alfred had ever seen in his entire life shouted to his companions. He sprinted down the stairs two at a time, and Alfred thought he was going to shoot right past him and head for a different staircase, but the guy stopped once he reached the same platform as Alfred, realizing none of the six people he'd left on the steps were following him. "What are you all doing? This isn't the time for games!" He turned and scowled at Alfred. "You, also. Come on."

Alfred didn't have enough time to respond, since Eyebrows—as Alfred decided to name him—took off again to somewhere else behind Alfred. Alfred didn't look to see where, exactly, too dazed at the sudden outburst.

"Unfortunately, he is right," another blonde came forward, only at a much slower, more leisurely pace than Eyebrows had. He scrutinized Alfred with an intense gaze, like he was trying to see every detail of Alfred's features. The smirk he gave Alfred when he was finished seemed _pleased_. Alfred tried not to make a face that portrayed how disturbing he found the other, because for all he knew, the man might've been hiding lethal weapon somewhere. "It'll be nice working with you."

He winked before moving past Alfred and trying to figure out to where Eyebrows had run.

The remaining five didn't waste any more time. They all descended the steps briskly, and one of them even bumped against Alfred, but that was the most recognition Alfred got from any of them other than the occasional sideways glance. Alfred made to go after them, until he heard another pair of footsteps coming down the steps, bit by bit. The chances were it wouldn't be the best idea Alfred's ever had to wait for whatever was coming down those steps, but Alfred did, anyway. After they utterly ditched him, Alfred wasn't necessarily going to go ahead and trust those seven people he'd met.

Alfred loitered at the bottom of the steps, leaning against the handrail. To occupy himself, Alfred opened and closed his left hand repeatedly in an attempt to get used to the sting whenever his palm was used. More blood came from the tear as he moved it, but he turned a blind eye to it. It wasn't imperative. Normally, blood would freak Alfred out to the point that he fainted, but he'd gotten used to it by now.

He was losing his sanity.

The footsteps on the stairs were getting close enough that whoever owned them must've been only ten steps away from the bottom. Alfred tried to stop messing around with his injured hand and look up, but he couldn't. The distance between him and those footsteps was getting smaller, and still, Alfred didn't lift his eyes. It felt like there was a weight pressing on him—crushing his chest with such a pressure that it felt as if his ribs were cracking.

The noises stopped. Alfred didn't dare breathe.

The soft, hesitant tap on his shoulder was what made Alfred regain his bearings. Immediately, dreadful thoughts filled his mind. This wasn't a good idea, he knew it, he could have just been touched by a slaughterer, he should have just dealt with those seven jerks from earlier and followed them despite their tendency to be inconsiderate and creepy jackasses. Alfred spun around, fearful for his life.

He froze, stunned.

It wasn't like the man on the last step of the stairs in front of him was so amazing attractive that Alfred was stupefied, and it wasn't a corny, 'love at first sight' kind of deal, but rather, Alfred was positive he'd seen him from somewhere before now. The black hair, straight posture, clean and pressed clothes, brown eyes that betrayed nothing other than the lack of a soul—Alfred remembered him from somewhere, without a doubt.

But, judging by the other's expression, he wasn't astounded or fazed in the least bit.

"Uh, hi," Alfred greeted him intelligently. He couldn't think of much else to say that wouldn't serve in making the awkward even more tangible.

Rather than hearing anything enlightening, the response Alfred got was just, "Were you going upstairs?"

"I'm sorry?" Alfred asked.

"All the doors on A Deck are locked. There's no point, although you should check for yourself if you don't believe me."

Alfred honestly had nothing to say to that.

The other kept talking, regardless.

"We should get going," he said. "There might be some places to search on B Deck, unless you've already done that and were coming to see A Deck?"

Alfred still couldn't formulate an answer, despite how many times he opened and closed his mouth, thinking it would do something.

"I'll take that as a negative," the man said, and took that last step down off the staircase and stood next to Alfred directly. It would only take Alfred a minute extension of the arm, and he'd be able to touch this person. Alfred decided against it, because, yes, it could jog his memory, but then he'd seem weird. _Weirder_. "It looks like there's some commotion over there."

The man went to walk away.

Alfred grabbed his arm before he could.

"Do I know you?" the words were spilling out of Alfred's mouth before he could process he was saying them. "I mean, you seem pretty familiar."

The other stared at him blankly.

"No."

"Oh." To be truthful, Alfred was disappointed. "Okay. I just thought I knew you. Small world, you know?"

"It's fine."

Alfred let go of his arm and trailed behind him wordlessly as they both made their way over to the cluster of people gathered in a circle in one corner of the floor. They were arguing beforehand, but when Alfred showed up, they all went silent, except for Eyebrows, whose eyes momentarily flicked between Alfred and the guy he'd met on the steps before he scowled and snorted in something that sounded a lot like distaste.

"We thought you were taking quite a while," he remarked derisively. "We can't afford to dawdle. Keep that in mind, would you?"

The man Alfred had walked back with didn't respond to his attitude but said, "Each door on A Deck is locked. There are no keys."

"Am I missing something?" Alfred cut in.

"It doesn't matter," Eyebrows said, waving both of them off. "I found something else. Take a look."

He moved out of the way.

Alfred took off his glasses and wiped them on his damp shirt, just to make sure what he was seeing wasn't the result of possible grime on the lenses distorting the picture. He put them back on, optimistic that he'd see something different, but they were still there.

Doors.

A 4 in red paint on the one on the left, and a 5 in the same style on the door to the right.

_His_ door.

It sat there along the wall in front of him innocently, but also quietly mocking him.

It felt like a slap across the face.

"Holy shit," Alfred murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular. He was shaking, and he knew it. Pure fear wracked his whole frame. His hands at his sides were trembling. Sweat colder than the water he'd almost drowned in beaded his forehead as the nauseating feeling he'd gotten when he'd first woken up crawled its way back up his throat with renewed vigor. Clenching his fists and swallowing his saliva were all he could do to not vomit. It was difficult for everyone else to hear him, but not so much when he questioned at a much higher volume, "What's going on?"

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**A/N**: thank you for reading

also, um, I started a fic blog? that I might probably use

it's on tumblr with the URL **evilmanray**, same as on here and AO3

if you liked this and want to send me prompts or something or just come hang out and chat I'll be there


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